


Privacy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hataraku Maou-Sama! | The Devil Is a Part-Timer!
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Display of Affection, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I’m not watching,' Lucifer says. 'I’m very deliberately not watching to protect my innocent eyes. But I can still hear you, you know, and Alciel isn’t leaving very much to the imagination.'" Satan and Alciel take advantage of a few minutes of rare privacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Privacy

“That’s really disgusting, you know.”

Alciel jumps. It’s a miracle he doesn’t actually scream at the shock of remembering Lucifer is in the room; he blames his silence on the way his throat closes up around his panic, effectively cutting off a more vocal response than the weird chirping choke he manages to get out.

Apparently Satan has been suffering from no such temporary forgetfulness as Alciel. He barely lifts his head from the shoulders gone sudden stiff with panic to call back, “You don’t have to watch, you know.”

“I’m not watching,” Lucifer says. “I’m very deliberately not watching to protect my innocent eyes. But I can still hear you, you know, and Alciel isn’t leaving very much to the imagination.” 

“I’m not--!” Alciel starts, flushed with embarrassment and squeaking into panic, and then Satan’s fingers slide along his waist to his hip and his words die into a weird shuddery gasp instead.

“Like that,” Lucifer sighs. “Can’t you get a love hotel or something and leave me in peace?”

“Hotels are  _expensive_ ,” Satan whines, and it’s really not fair how calm he sounds while his thumb is curling in under the loose edge of Alciel’s shirt and hooking into his belt loop. “Just put your headphones on or something.”

“Ew, gross. Just because I can’t hear it doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“There’s only one room,” Satan points out, remarkably reasonably Alciel notes somewhere past the haze of horrified embarrassment trying to take control of his entire body. “Just leave the house for a half hour or something. Go for a walk, get some sunshine.”

“Are you seriously suggesting physical activity?” Lucifer asks. “The shock of the effort might kill me before the sunburn does.”

“Suit yourself,” Satan says, and his hand swings up, fingers catching to push against Alciel’s bare skin. Alciel doesn’t  _intend_  to make the sound he does -- something between a wail and a groan -- and he  _really_  doesn’t intend to grab so hard at the counter for support that he knocks the box of salt sideways, but his intentions don’t have any bearing at all on his body, apparently. There’s the bang of the box hitting the counter, the sound of Satan coughing a laugh over Alciel’s shoulder, and: “ _Oh my god_ ,” Lucifer shouts. “Oh my god! Okay! I’m going!”

“My lord--” Alciel starts, but it’s too soft, the sound lost underneath Satan calling “Make it an hour!” as Lucifer flings the door open to stomp outside. It rattles the frame as it swings to, makes Alciel flinch for the potential damage to the door itself, but Satan is laughing and has his hand pressed flush against Alciel’s stomach now and he can’t muster any but minimal verbal resistance.

“He could come back at any time,” Alciel says, trying to speak as levelly as he can around the thrumming awareness of heat at his skin, the texture of weirdly human fingers skimming under his shirt, and are all human bodies this sensitive? “Isn’t this a bit risky, Lord Satan?”

“It’s not  _risky_. Even if he comes back early it’s not like he doesn’t know what we’re doing,” Satan says, closing his hand on Alciel’s hip. “Turn around.”

Alciel does, leaning against the countertop as he goes until he’s pressed up against it instead of leaning over the support. There’s a moment of bright eyes, a flash of sharp teeth in amusement rather than threat, and then Satan is dropping to a knee at the floor and Alciel’s thoughts go dizzy with the  _wrongness_  of it.

“ _Lord Satan_ ,” he gasps, fingers tightening at the counter behind him. If he trusted his footing he would grab at Satan’s hair, push him back with as much respect as forcible removal can entail, or maybe just collapse to his knees himself to even out their positions. But he  _doesn’t_  trust his footing -- he has the same dizzy vertigo that came with being sick, though this feels more like heat than nausea -- and Satan’s too close, there’s no space for Alciel’s legs to fit. If he falls now his knee will end up digging into Satan’s stomach at best and crushing against his nose at worst, and of all the options actually causing the other harm is the most unacceptable. So he white-knuckles the counter instead, dips his head until his hair is falling in his face, and infuses his “ _Please_  get up” with as much sincerity as he can muster.

“Why?” Satan asks, looking up from his position on the floor. He’s rocking his weight back, looks like he’s getting more comfortable instead of unfolding, and that pulls a whimper of protest from Alciel’s throat in place of more coherent complaints. “Do you want to stop?” His gaze drops from Alciel’s face to the front of his pants, the fabric pulling tight over hot-flushed skin. “You seem like you’re pretty into this.”

“No,” Alciel manages. “I do not want to stop. But, my lord --”

“Okay,” Satan says, and then his hands are against the front of Alciel’s pants and any hope of coherency flashes away into steam and haze in Alciel’s mind. “Lemme know if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Hh,” Alciel says, and that seems to be enough encouragement, because Satan is pulling at his clothes, loosening the button and tugging the zipper down. There’s a movement of fabric, cloth catching at fingers and sliding off skin, and then there’s heat, a gust of breath warm from Satan’s lungs, and Alciel makes the mistake of looking down.

It’s not so bad to see himself, really, even if his pants are more than half-off his hips and he’s a lot harder than he usually is when he’s in the middle of changing. But Satan’s  _right there_ , eyes skimming across all Alciel’s bared skin, and Alciel can see him opening his mouth and leaning in and he has to shut his eyes, barely manages to get his vision blocked off into the safety of darkness before the heat of Satan’s mouth is sliding over him. It’s nearly too much even as it is -- the heat sparks straight up Alciel’s spine, the friction tingles through him like raw electricity -- but he manages to gasp a breath, at least, thinks through the process of letting it go again, and is halfway through an exhale when Satan hums, and moves, and all Alciel’s attention is gone just like that.

It’s more than being undone, different than being fit into the smaller, frailer human form that has become normal for him. It’s like turning into heat itself, light that won’t quite fit inside the skin he’s wearing, and there is no possible way humans feel like this too or they would all go stark raving mad the moment anyone touched them. Maybe it’s just Satan himself, some weird supernatural electricity clinging to his lips and lurking under his fingertips; Alciel doesn’t know, can’t think it through logically when it’s all he can do to keep his feet under him.

Satan pulls back, takes a breath. “You gotta stay standing,” he says, and Alciel opens his eyes to meet his gaze. Satan’s mouth is wet, his lips slick with damp, and Alciel flinches from the tension that creaks in his chest, the weight of the heat flooding into his blood. “I can’t hold you up and blow you at the same time.”

“You do not have to, my lord,” Alciel manages, because it’s true, even if he’s starting to shake at the idea of stopping here, even if he’s maybe staring a little harder than he should be at Satan’s mouth. “You could stop if you want to.”

Satan rolls his eyes. “I know I can,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to,” and he’s coming back in, and Alciel has to shut his eyes again.

He doesn’t know what sounds he makes. He doesn’t really notice much of anything, actually, after Satan’s mouth is back on him; he’s too busy clinging to the edge under his hands, forcing his knees to stay up through sheer force of will, holding desperately to his balance while his heartbeat flutters itself into rhythm with the motions of Satan’s lips and tongue. There’s sound in his ears, his breathing going louder than it should, and then Satan does something involving his tongue and the head of Alciel’s cock and Alciel’s voice scrapes itself high and desperate and anxious. His knees tremble, his fingers cramp, and then Satan makes a noise and Alciel completely loses track of the rest of his body for the sun-bright heat that crashes through him. He’s groaning, he thinks, or shouting, he’s not even sure if it’s words; he’s certain that he’s glowing, radiant with the waves of sensation rushing out into him and spilling past the mortal bounds of his body.

“That was cool,” Satan’s voice comes from a long way away, and Alciel blinks, and realizes he’s half-collapsed on the floor. He managed to get one knee out sideways, slipped out onto the floor instead of kicking Satan in the face, so that’s some kind of a benefit, but he’s sticky too, his pants damp with come and Satan wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you mean to do that?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Alciel says, and the radiance across his cheeks now has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with self-consciousness. “Oh, Lord Satan, I am  _so_  sorry.”

“Whatever,” Satan shrugs, pushes back over the floor to lean against the counters. “I’m not gonna try to stand, now that we know how that turns out.”

“I could have  _hurt_  you,” Alciel gasps, reaching to pull his clothes into some shape of alignment while he tries to frame an appropriate apology on his tongue.

“Eh.” Satan shrugs again. He’s pulling his zipper down, now, pushing against the edge of his jeans to wiggle them off his hips. “I’m fine.” The movement draws Alciel’s gaze unavoidably, catches his attention to the flushed shape of Satan’s cock as it comes free of his jeans; he’s still staring when Satan closes his fingers around himself, starts to stroke with a low groan of satisfaction.

“D’you want to apologize or join me?” he asks, while Alciel is still staring and trying to remember how  _not_  to stare. “It’ll be more fun if you’re helping, probably.”

Alciel makes a weird noise, in keeping with the sensation he has that he’s just been punched in the stomach, and when he moves it’s to slowly fold across the floor. Luckily the kitchen is tiny, as teacup-sized as the rest of the apartment, and this gentle collapse puts him more or less in line with Satan’s knees. Satan shifts his legs wider, obligingly inviting, and Alciel feels like he still has more apology to offer but that’s going to have to come later, when he’s not eye-level with the slow slide of Satan’s narrow human fingers against the flushed color of his cock. Without looking up at Satan’s expression it’s easier to do what he wants, which is to open his mouth wide and fit his lips in against the head of Satan’s length so he can suck down against him in one slow motion. Satan makes a purring noise of pleasure, his fingers draw away to reach into Alciel’s hair instead, and Alciel shuts his eyes, focuses in on the touch at his head like it’s a guide for his movements.

It serves well. The pressure against the back of his neck means  _more_ , or maybe  _faster_ ; fingers fluttering not-quite into contact is  _slower_ ,  _gentler_. Alciel adjusts, follows the unspoken command of Satan’s fingertips and the speeding pattern of his breathing to fall into a rhythm, and then they have it, his tongue going heavy with bitter and his jaw aching with the weird pressure and the sustained suction. Alciel doesn’t care, Alciel would be happy to stay like this forever. It feels like where he belongs, where he was intended to be, until when Satan gasps an inhale and tips up off the floor by an inch to come shuddering and hot as fire over his tongue it tastes like praise on Alciel’s lips.

“You’re getting  _good_  at that,” Satan says as Alciel pulls away, closes his mouth to swallow hard and clear his tongue of the salty weight of liquid. “I could learn something from you,”

“Not at all,” Alciel insists, not out of politeness as much as the fact that he’s still thrumming with pleasure, that the memory of Satan’s lips pressed against his shudders another jolt down his back. “You are as superior in this as you are in everything.”

The fingers come back into his hair, ruffle through the strands and spread warmth in their wake. “You haven’t really changed at all, have you, Alciel?”

Alciel turns, lets the weight of his head rest against the denim at the inside of Satan’s thigh, and when he breathes out it’s with a smile. “No, my lord.”

They’re still like that when Lucifer comes back in a few minutes later.

“ _Oh_  my  _god_!” is the first warning they get before Alciel is scrambling to his feet and Satan is curling in to drag his jeans back into place. “ _Jesus_  what is  _wrong_  with you two?”

Privacy, Alciel is beginning to think, is soon going to be the most valuable commodity in the apartment.


End file.
